Farmers and Bathrobes
by Alobear
Summary: Illya gets annoyed with Napoleon and then gets something else.


Farmers and Bathrobes

by Alobear

Category: Slash

Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo

Summary:

Illya gets annoyed with Napoleon and then gets something else.

Notes:

So, I've pretty much been obsessed with Man From Uncle since I saw the movie last weekend. I had an idea for a case fic, but couldn't be bothered with all the research so I decided just to write the fun bit instead!

It's been a very long time since I've written PWP, but I enjoyed it - hope you do too!

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Napoleon was relaxing in his hotel room, feet up on an ottoman, glass of whisky in hand. He was freshly showered and ensconced in one of the hotel's luxurious bathrobes, feeling rather satisfied with the day's activities.

The UNCLE team was in England, tracking down a rogue MI6 agent, which had Waverly particularly ruffled and the others rather enjoying his discomfort. They had split up for the day, feeling fairly secure in their surroundings, and safe to conduct solitary investigations. Since the other two were not yet back at the hotel, Napoleon decided he must have got the best assignment. He stretched and took a sip of whisky.

He had spent the afternoon rather pleasantly, visiting various haunts across London and checking in with old contacts, in the hopes that their quarry might have been spotted. And he had. Napoleon had been reliably informed that the rogue agent was operating out of a depressingly downmarket establishment south of the river. So he had returned to their much nicer accommodations to await his companions before formulating a plan of attack.

Gaby had been despatched to MI6 itself under some pretext or other, with a view to researching the agent's old files, in case any clues as to his current whereabouts might be gleaned from them.

And Illya...

As if summoned by Napoleon thinking his name, the door to the suite suddenly burst open to reveal the Russian giant himself. Napoleon looked up, startled, his eyes widening at Illya's appearance. He was wearing heavy boots, dark trousers and his habitual corduroy jacket and flat cap, all of which were covered in mud. His jacket was torn at the shoulder and a thick mixture of what looked like dirt and blood was smeared down the right side of his face.

The expression of murderous fury on Illya's face did nothing to deter Napoleon's reaction, and he burst out laughing.

"What on earth have you been up to, Peril?" he gasped. "Have you been pig wrestling, or something?"

Then, Napoleon noticed how Illya's hands were trembling at his sides, and he knew he was in trouble.

He managed to scramble up from his armchair, but then the Russian was on him, barrelling into him at top speed and crashing them both into the wall. Napoleon found himself effortlessly pinned, one of Illya's arms pressed hard across his throat.

"What's the matter?" he managed to choke out, clueless as to what had set the Russian off.

"You send me to farm on stupid goose chase," Illya replied, his voice low and angry. "But it is I who am chased, by crazy farmer with shotgun. And you are sitting here with bathrobe and whisky."

The reason for sending Illya to that location had been sound, but Napoleon got the distinct impression it wouldn't help to remind Illya of that right now.

"Can't we talk about this?" Napoleon almost squeaked, squirming against the Russian's bulk.

The movement dislodged his bathrobe, exposing the length of his naked body to view, though Illya was pressed so close as to be only inches from Napoleon's face.

"No talking, Cowboy," Illya growled.

His blue eyes locked with Napoleon's for a long moment, the expression in them slowly shifting from barely controlled rage to something else altogether. And then Illya did something entirely unexpected. He removed his arm from Napoleon's throat, grabbed the edges of the bathrobe, leaned in and kissed Napoleon bruisingly on the mouth.

Napoleon was momentarily stunned, then opened his lips to receive Illya's tongue. He reached both his hands up into Illya's muddy hair, knocking off his cap in the process. Illya responded by grinding Napoleon even further into the wall, as if trying to get as much of his body in contact with Napoleon's as he could. Napoleon shifted upwards slightly, using Illya's weight as leverage, then brought both his legs up and around to lock his ankles at the small of Illya's back.

Their mouths still locked in combat, Illya moved his arms to a more secure position, then swung around and actually carried Napoleon across the suite and into one of the bedrooms. At over six feet tall, Napoleon was used to being physically dominant in sexual encounters. Unexpectedly, he experienced an extra shiver of arousal at feeling at Illya's mercy. The giant Russian casually tossed him onto the bed, then stood looking down at him, breathing heavily, his eyes bordering on feral.

Napoleon shrugged entirely out of the bathrobe and looked Illya up and down pointedly.

"You're falling behind, Peril," he said, nonchalantly, though he could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. Whatever was about to happen, he knew it wasn't going to be sedate.

In answer, Illya practically ripped all his clothes off and launched himself on top of Napoleon, crushing him into the mattress and claiming his mouth again.

They wrestled for a few minutes, Napoleon exerting himself to demonstrate that he wasn't just going to let himself be taken. Eventually they found a rhythm that suited both of them, and Napoleon discovered that Illya was surprisingly skilled, despite his apparent social awkwardness. The rage monster that forever lurked beneath the Russian's tense exterior made its presence felt at times, but never to the extent of Illya losing control. He was rough but not violent, using his teeth but never breaking the skin. Napoleon found himself enjoying the encounter immensely, and matched Illya's enthusiasm with exuberant energy of his own.

It was all over far too soon.

They rolled away from each other to lie, panting, side by side.

After a moment, Napoleon twisted his head to find Illya regarding him solemnly from the other side of the bed. His anger and lust were both now spent, and his expression was wary, as if he was uncertain of Napoleon's reaction to what had just happened.

"So," Napoleon drawled, reaching out a hand to run his fingers through the semen pooled on Illya's stomach. He brought them up to his mouth and slowly licked them clean. "Running away from angry farmers makes you horny." He cocked an eyebrow at the still silent Russian. "Good to know."

And Illya smiled.

THE END


End file.
